Happy Fuckin' Birthday: GTA V
by SuchaCarelessWhisper
Summary: One-shot story: It's Franklin's 24th birthday and his day had started off a little bit shitty. Michael gives him a few calls, gives the kid a sense of relief, but after those calls, he's left alone again, left to wither away inside an unfamiliar house, living next door to shitty assholes. Sorry for the bad summary :P Michael/Franklin father-son fluff, and (Lamar/Franklin fluff)


**A/N: Hey guys! Soo...I have been wanting to write a Franklin/Lamar fic since the very first time I've played the game. I could just see the chemistry between them, well, when they aren't arguing that is. Lamar to me seems like he's a secret sensitive type. He acts badass, but deep down, he's just gotta' be a sweet, sensitive guy. I'm sorry for those of you GTA fans that don't accept this couple, but if you don't like it please just go the other way. If you do, then it's your lucky day! This story is just a one-shot. Nothing filthy just fluff. Also there is a little bit of Michael and Franklin fatherly fluff as well, nothing more than that, just to inform you!**

**Disclaimer: ****I do NOT OWN anyone or anything from the making of this story. I leave everything to amazing Rockstar and all that good stuff!**

**Warnings: Language and some fluff**

**Happy Fucking Birthday: GTA V**

**::**

RRRNNGG! RRRRRNNGGG! RRRNNNGG!

Franklin opened up one eye, vision blurry as hell, and his head ringing to the opposite annoying ass ringing beside him on his night stand. What time was it? Leaning up in bed, Franklin looked over to his right and outside his large glass swinging doors darkness was visible in the sky.

The ringing finally stopped and he removed the charger from his cell and laid his ass back in bed, taking a quick peek.

The time was 12:34 and he noticed he had a text. Why the hell was it ringing off the fucking hook? Franklin rolled his eyes and squinted at the text message before him. Lamar, you annoying bastard! Franklin read it once and locked his phone, putting it back over his night stand and he rolled over on to his side, attempting to fall back to sleep.

_"Happy fuckin' b-day, nigga!"_

That was totally Lamar, and why the hell was he up so damn late? It was Franklin's 24th birthday and he was already feeling like an old man. He groaned and pulled the blanket up over his head, trying to escape everything for as long as his brain would let him. No sound, just sweet serenity.

Franklin woke again, eight hours later, and the sun was shining obnoxiously through his large window, nearly blinding him. He didn't even have a chance to look around his room because of the damn light. "Uh, fuck!" Franklin growled deep and smacked a palm over his face to cover his eyes as he crawled out of bed. Not a good idea, seeing that he was still unfamiliar with his new place and was tripping all over the god damn place.

He uncovered his only source of vision and cursed loud after finding a nasty looking bruise in the middle of his left knee and the pain was sharp. He knocked it in to the night stand and noticed a few other bruises while keeping his position on the floor. If this was how his day was going to play out, he would rather lay in bed all day and sulk. RNNNGG! RNNNGGG! There it was again, driving Franklin nuts.

The young man got to his feet carefully, sitting down on the edge of his bed and answered his call. It was Michael and hell, was Franklin happy to hear from someone who understood what he was going through. "Hey man, thanks for callin'," Franklin smiled unintentionally in to the phone and Michael, on the opposite end, gave him a chuckle in return.

"No problem, happy birthday kid," the older man commented and Franklin directed his eyes towards his feet, toes wiggling across the soft carpet. New carpet, fresh carpet.

There was a long silence between the two of them before Michael's startling cough broke that. "So, how young are you going to be, damn, I feel like an old fuck!" Michael asked, sighing in to the phone and Franklin kicked up his feet and laid against the headboard of his bed. He rolled his eyes again; Michael was no old fuck, he was just a sad man. Nothing old about him.

"Come on man, you ain't no old fuck, I am the old fuck," Franklin acknowledged Michael's lowly question, scratching his right arm with dull nails. Michael let out another hardy laugh and Franklin just smiled. Michael was like the father he had always wanted and that was the honest truth. He enjoyed their time always spent together. He did feel bad for him though; his entire family just one day decided to leave him in total isolation and he was left there to wither away in a big ass house, with no one but himself to talk to.

Franklin was very appreciative of Michael's phone call. The man didn't have to, didn't have no reason to, but he did anyway. He did because he cared.

"I'll talk to you later, Frankie," Michael ended the call and once it was over, Franklin put down his phone, stared at his bruised knee and got up off his ass and marched over towards the pathetic excuse for a bathtub. The round ass body bowl looked nothing like a bathtub. Not even the spout nor the handle could tell him otherwise, it just about made him laugh.

"Now, how do I work this fuckin' thing?" even though he was staring right at the handle to turn it on, he was still a little confused on how it worked. How hard can man make one bath tub to function? Franklin felt a little taken back by his own thought process. His IQ felt degraded.

Stepping out of the ash colored ceramic tub, Franklin had just came to realize that the towels were not where they were supposed to be. They were not draped over the side like he hoped. Why the hell did he move them?

"Oh, fuck!" Franklin cursed wickedly, shaking his arms and his head to get a little bit of the leftover water off, standing completely nude in front of his large curtain less swinging door. How much more of this day can one man take? Quickly racing in to his closet, Franklin found where he hid the towels and he grabbed one in a quick swipe through his discarded clothes and began to pat himself dry.

After picking out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, Franklin clothed himself and headed for the tv room. He had a sweet-ass house, but something about it made him feel alone, and almost lost. He didn't really miss his 'thug' life, but he'd be lying if he said he hated his old street.

Franklin was now surrounded by stuck-up pieces of shit people, who thought money was the answer to any possible issue in life. Franklin was definitely not one of those. He'd never be like them. As long as he had a roof over his head, he was fine.

**.**

Spending a long ass hour watching reality tv, Franklin moved from his fucked up position on the couch, stood up to stretch out his aching muscles only to hurt all over again, and he waddled off in to his bedroom, where he noticed a few missed calls showing up on the screen of his phone.

He sat down on his bed to take a look. Lamar called two times. The last call was only thirty minutes ago. Franklin thought about just leaving it alone, but Lamar was his homie, and he wanted to get himself noticed on Frank's birthday. He knew that Franklin was left alone in uncharted territory, but he also knew how sweet his pad was. Franklin found Lamar's contact and called him up. After a few rings, the bastard answered.

"Yo!" Lamar said with enthusiasm. Franklin just shook his head. "Sorry I missed all yo' calls, I fell asleep watchin' shit on tv, so what did you need?" Franklin asked, scratching the bump that now covered his purple bruise on his knee.

Lamar was silent for a second or so. "I wanted to tell yo' ass that I gotcha' somethin', you know, fo' yo' birthday, nigga', so stop soundin' all depressed an' shit!" Lamar explained, his voice almost annoying the hell out of Franklin. He wasn't fucking depressed, he was just quiet. He'd rather be a quiet weirdo than be a loud ass mother fucker like Lamar any day.

"Whatdu' get me?" Franklin asked, not too excited, but enough anticipation to get him a little going. It was his birthday and all. He still didn't get a call, not even a text from his own aunt. Hell, he got one from Trevor and that dude is a fucking creeper.

Lamar gave out a breathless chuckle on his end. "Not tellin, you will see when I drive my ass over, see ya' soon, homie," Lamar hung up and Franklin set his phone back down. He stared blankly at the floor. The room was cool and that was a good thing. It was almost a hundred fucking degrees outside. Another good thing about this place, fucking amazing cooling system.

Taking in a deep breath, Franklin recognized the smell of his shampoo and the soap he used. It was some new brand he wasn't familiar with, definitely for the rich folk, but whatever the hell it was, it smelled great.

Just before too long, at 2:34, Michael called again. He wanted to let Franklin know that he means a lot to him, and that the kid's crazy for getting his ass mixed up in his screwed up life, but he was thankful for it, because he got another son out of it. One that actually gives a shit.

Franklin liked that about Michael. They said their 'see ya's' again and Franklin hung up, noticing the loud pounding at his door. He stood up fast, made his way over to the other side of the large ass house, and opened the door to see the tall motherfucker standing before him, with an unwrapped white box in his possession. Lamar always seemed to be the only one that got him anything on his birthday, and paid with money, never fucking stolen.

"Happy birthday, homie!" Lamar called out with a smile on his lips, bringing his fist in for a bump. Franklin bumped and took the box that Lamar shoved at him.

"Thanks, so, hows life been now that I'm gone?" Franklin asked, not really thinking about Lamar's reaction to the question that Frank knew hit home. They both walked in to the tv room, sat down on the deep red painted couch and Lamar went silent.

Franklin tried to pay attention to the way Lamar moved, how he looked at everything and how his tattooed fingers twitched across his lap. He knew that question bothered him, but he had no idea it would leave him speechless. "Slow, homie, very slow," Lamar finally piped up, looking up at his childhood friend sitting across from him on the opposite end of the couch. Something in his voice was different, soft and quiet. The air around them fell suddenly cold to the bone.

"Thanks for the present, man, I really appreciate it," Franklin commented, trying to break the negative wall between them, hoping that opening it would give Lamar a sense of gratification or even joy. It was Franklin's fault for Lamar being so down; it was always strange seeing him like that, even if it was a rare thing.

Lamar found Franklin eyeing the box in his lap. He pulled himself up from his lap and sat up straight, watching Frank pull off the top lid of the off white box.

Once he had opened it, Franklin fell silent. It was a small stack of notebook paper, each one folded over in secrecy. Franklin knew what they were though. It was a tiny piece of their childhood. He didn't know what to say, how to react.

"'member how you used to make fun of me fo' writin' those, everyone did, everybody at that fuckin' school thought I was messed up 'cus I was a dude writin' poetry," Lamar's tone was hurt, but part of it was angry and relieved. He shifted where he sat, picking nervously at his short nails, staring down at the floor. Franklin heard every word he said, but he kept quiet and pulled out one of the poems. They were all about someone, something in Lamar's life. Some were things that happened, and some were people he used to know. A lot of them were about Franklin, but he had no idea about that, not until he read those certain ones for the first time.

Looking up from the paper, Franklin met Lamar's gaze. Neither of them knew what to say. Lamar got up from the couch, made a tiny sound, and sat down beside Franklin, suddenly resting his forehead on his shoulder, his hat tipping slightly.

"Yo' my best friend, always been," Lamar stated in a soft whisper against Franklin's neck. The warmth of his breath gave Frank unwanted chills, but he accepted the closeness, and put an arm over his shoulders.

"Same homie," Franklin replied, voice soft.

Those poems of Lamar's were heavy, some soft but most very intense and heavy. Franklin had some memorized from all those years ago. Maybe this birthday wasn't so bad anyway. Franklin got what he wanted, and had all that he could ever ask for.

"Happy fuckin' b-day, nigga!" Lamar cried out with a wide ass smile on his face.

**::**

**E/N: Tell me how it was, I just hope Lamar wasn't ooc, I just fret about that so badly. Anyway, like I said before, I just love Lamar/Franklin. There will possibly be more of them, but I need to get on with some Michael/Trevor crap first! SEE YA!**


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